


Common Grounds

by House of Halation (glasshibou)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Asmodeus and Belphegor ship you together, MC and Mammon are simps for each other but are oblivious to that, Other, coffee shop AU, fast burn, rated T purely because of some Naughty Thoughts, warning for the cheesiest possible pickup lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasshibou/pseuds/House%20of%20Halation
Summary: For an anon on tumblr, who said:For prompts, how about Mammon x MC coffee shop au. “I write a bad pick up line on your cup every time I’m your barista.”---There are better places to get coffee. Places that are closer to your apartment that aren’t also clogged with all of the underclassmen that grate on every last nerve you have. Places where you’re guaranteed not to have little leftover grounds in your daily cup and they definitely won’t run out of biscotti so early in the morning.But Common Grounds is a cute little shop that’s locally owned and, hey, supporting locally-owned businesses is the thing to do these days, isn’t it? Who cares if it adds an extra seven minutes to your commute and you’re sometimes almost late to your morning class. Or that there’s almost always a gaggle of teenagers trying to get the baristas’ numbers and they clog up the line and every time your favorite barista gives one of them a toothy smile you feel like you might internally combust.
Relationships: Mammon (Shall We Date? Obey Me)/Reader, Mammon (Shall We Date? Obey Me)/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 83





	Common Grounds

There are better places to get coffee. Places that are closer to your apartment that aren’t also clogged with all of the underclassmen that grate on every last nerve you have. Places where you’re guaranteed not to have little leftover grounds in your daily cup and they definitely won’t run out of biscotti so early in the morning. 

But Common Grounds is a cute little shop that’s locally owned and, hey, supporting locally-owned businesses is the thing to do these days, isn’t it? Who cares if it adds an extra seven minutes to your commute and you’re sometimes almost late to your morning class. Or that there’s almost always a gaggle of teenagers trying to get the baristas’ numbers and they clog up the line and every time your favorite barista gives one of them a toothy smile you feel like you might internally combust.

_ Who. Cares. _

(You do. Even if you know that teenagers aren’t competition and you shouldn’t flirt with someone when they’re on the clock. Even if you’re trying very hard to keep yourself from admitting just how much you actually do care.)

Most of the time you just get something that’s quick to make and easy to carry with you, even if you're not exactly the biggest fan of Americanos or how bitter they are; you prefer sweeter things, but sometimes after an all-night you just need the extra shot of caffeine. The baristas are always accommodating, even when you’re so tired you can barely say your own name right. Some of them, you’re sure, know you on sight—or at least, they know your order and that they should add an extra shot or two of espresso when your under-eye bags are dark enough to block out the sun.

“Classes gettin’ rough?” Mammon asks as he leans over the counter, the same toothy smile that makes you melt aimed in your direction. He’s your favorite barista, but you don’t think he likes you all that much. Half the time you see him he darts away from you like he’s just remembered he left his oven on and has to go turn it off. Immediately. Whenever there’s nobody else to take your order he does so grudgingly, moving robotically and with a silence that would make a Carthusian monk blush. The one and only time you tried to chat him up while he was working, he almost scalded himself on the espresso machine’s hot water tap. 

He glared up at you with such an intense ferocity that you snapped your mouth shut and privately promised to never try and talk to him again. 

Which is why it’s surprising to you that he’s bothering to talk now because you thought he’d valued the silence and appreciated the fact that you were staying far away from him. That didn’t stop you from  _ watching _ of course; there’s no harm in that, you assure yourself. You like the way his rings glint in the bright lights behind the bar, and the way the golden studs in his ears play against his pale hair. You’re sure that he has to bleach it, or something, because there’s no way that hair that light is natural. Regardless, it looks good on him. 

“Huh?” You shake yourself out of your reverie only to realize that you’ve been staring at him. How  _ embarrassing. _

“Nothin’,” he says leaning away from you as he stands back up. “Nevermind.” The grin has been wiped away from his face and you mourn its absence. 

“Sorry,” you say as you rub the side of your face. “It’s just—finals are coming up, so I’ve been pulling some long hours.” Mammon snorts as he pulls out a marker and scribbles something on the side of your to-go cup before he slots it underneath the coffee machine’s nozzle.

“Ya look like it,” he tells you as you reach for your wallet. He freezes as if he’s just realized what he said. “I mean—’s not that you look  _ bad _ , it’s just—”

“I’m still leaving a tip, don’t worry.” You try to swallow your laughter because it’s clear that he just spoke without thinking and didn’t mean anything malicious about it. And the way he’s scrambling to recover his mistake is… kinda cute. Okay,  _ really _ cute. You like it when he blushes, the way it sweeps across his cheeks and his fingers shake a little bit when he’s really embarrassed. You don’t get to see it often, though, because he’s usually pretty cool to all of the customers he interacts with. “Besides, I know I look like a hot mess.”

“Coulda just said you’re hot,” he mutters, but the hiss of steam from the machine obscures his words and you’re completely oblivious to them. Customers start to pile up in the line behind you and you realize with another surge of embarrassment that you’ve been holding up the line while you’ve been mooning over Mammon. 

“Mammon, go ring them up so I can get more orders in,” one of the other baristas orders. He’s the broody one that looks like he needs a shot or eight of his own brew all of the time, and you find it endlessly ironic that he works at a coffee shop. Mammon has your coffee in his hands and motions for you to follow him to the register at the end of the bar.

“And you can stop flirting while you’re at it,” the other barista adds lazily. His words have an immediate effect on Mammon.

“‘M not flirtin’!” Mammon complains, slamming down your coffee hard enough to knock the lid off. You jump back so that none of the hot coffee that sloshes over the rim can land on you. Mammon rubs his mouth in irritation and shoots you a glare, but the effect is ruined by the redness in his cheeks. “Shit. Sorry. Look, I’ll give ya a…” his eyes dart around to the display shelves behind him as he reaches for one of the baked goods. “Cookie. We good?”

You try not to read into the fact that the sugar cookie he offers you is a giant pink heart because the shop almost  _ always _ carries them, no matter the time of year. Asmodeus, the one in charge of decorating all of the baked goods, seems particularly taken with the pattern. 

“We’re good,” you say, unable to keep a grin off your face. The cookie more than makes up for the few drops of coffee that have escaped your cup, but you weren’t all that worried about the loss to begin with. You pay for your order and drop the leftover money in the tip jar beside the register, making good on your promise. “Just don’t burn yourself. See you!”

You toss the words over your shoulder as you hastily exit the coffee shop, almost tripping over the doorway on your way out. Class starts sooner than you’d like and you only have a few minutes to get there before you’re late. Which would be humiliating because this instructor is known for locking his door specifically to embarrass late students.

You slide into your seat just before your instructor closes the classroom door, coffee and cookie taking up real estate on the rickety desk. The garish pink icing on the cookie is particularly eye-catching, but your attention is taken up by strange little patterns on your cup under the heat sleeve. As your instructor launches into today’s lesson—something you honestly couldn’t care less about; this is just gen ed class—you shimmy the cleeve down and discover that the strange patterns are handwriting. 

_ If you were words on a page, you’d be fine print. _

You can’t help the small smile that spreads across your face

You consider stopping by Common Grounds on your way back home after class, but then you pause. Would that be considered stalking? Would that be too much? You’re pretty sure it was Mammon who wrote on your cup, but you hadn’t really been paying attention. It could have just been your name that he wrote down because that was on your cup too. 

And he’s at work. 

You don’t flirt with people when you’re at work, and you can’t imagine that he does either. Not even when some of the other customers try to chat him or the other baristas up. Not any more than it takes to earn a good tip, actually. Because you  _ have _ seen him flirt with some of the customers before, you realise with a sinking sensation. The ones that look like they might part with a few extra dollars he calls “darlin’” with a smile. You’ve seen him doodle a little smiley face or the tiniest of hearts on a cup when he’s managed to upsell some poor sucker on whatever now concoction Asmodeus devised that morning. 

But he’s never called  _ you _ darlin’ in that tone that makes you melt, even from across the shop. And aside from your name and the line this morning, he’s never drawn anything on your cup. You chew on the inside of your cheek and your stomach grumbles, letting you know that the morning’s coffee and cookie weren’t going to cut it for the rest of the afternoon. 

Well, now you have a reason to go back to the coffee shop. While not their main focus, they  _ do _ sell cute little sandwiches. And if Mammon just…  _ happens _ to be there, and you  _ happen _ to ask him about the goofy pickup line on your cup, well, that’s just happenstance, isn’t it?

He isn’t there. 

You try not to let your disappointment show too much on your face, but you’re pretty sure you failed that by the way the man behind the counter smirks at you. He’s unfamiliar to you, but that’s probably because you most often stop by the shop in the mornings. It's well into the afternoon hours right now. 

“He isn’t here,” the man says, tossing his sweep of dark hair away from his eyes. Your lips pucker into an embarrassed frown. 

“ _ Who _ isn’t here?” You ask, feigning ignorance. “I’m here for a sandwich, actually. It’s lunchtime.” You tap your wrist exactly where a watch would be if you wore one. But the dark-haired man doesn’t believe you, which is obvious by the way his smirk only grows. 

“If you insist,” he replies as you point out exactly what you want. But then he asks if you want your order to eat in or to take out, and you falter.  _ Is Mammon coming back? _ You bite at the inside of your cheek again and look at the menu as if that might give you any answer.

“He’s off the rest of the day,” the man says blandly, without even looking up as he taps your order into the register. Well. That’s one question answered. 

“I’ll take it to go,” you inform the man. “Because I have somewhere to be.” You don’t. It’s a lie to salvage what remains of your pride because the only thing waiting for you at home is more coursework.

He’s there again the next morning and you almost sigh in relief before you catch yourself—what’s so relieving that you have to  _ sigh _ for? Because whatever it is, your heart hasn’t gotten the memo. You can feel your heart picking up its pace as you step up to the counter.  _ What was it that you wrote on my cup? _ You want to ask, but discover that your tongue seems glued to the roof of your mouth.

“The regular?” Mammon asks with a raised eyebrow and you nod. His tone seems a bit… gruff, but that’s probably your imagination and oversensitive nerves. It’s not like he’s ever done his schmoozy routine on you, so him being a little short is normal, actually. You suppress the urge to sigh as he gets to work, plucking a cup. 

“Ooh, it’s you!” Asmodeus calls out from the other side of the bar. “I heard you had one of our new sandwiches yesterday. How was it? You have to tell me; Beel came up with that one and sometimes you just never know with him and his tastes…”

“It was fine,” you say immediately because honestly, you barely remember eating it. He draws your attention away from Mammon before you can see if Mammon wrote anything on your cup today. To make matters worse, Asmodeus plucks our cup from Mammon’s hands and shoos him away.

“Ya came back yesterday?” Mammon asks, looking up at you as he restocks some of the coffee beans like Asmodeus told him to. It frustrated you because now, if there’s something on your cup today, you won’t be able to make absolutely certain that it was Mammon who wrote it. You make eye contact and he immediately looks away from you like him looking up at all was a mistake. 

“I was hungry,” you mumble, scratching the back of your neck in embarrassment. It’s not like you can admit that you came back specifically to talk to him, especially not when you have an audience. Asmodeus hums to himself and caps his pen; you feel a surge of extra disappointment; now your results are going to be even  _ more _ muddled. 

“I bet you  _ were, _ ” Asmodeus croons as he pulls your morning brew. “You know, if you ever wanted anything  _ meatier,  _ there’s plenty of—”

“Just shut the hell up,” Mammon growls, cutting Asmodeus off with more fury than you’d been expecting. “Stop flirtin’ with customers while you’re on the clock.” He slams a bag of coffee beans down on the counter and the bag tears open, sending the beans sprawling out over the counter. “And if you’re gonna keep bein’ creepy, then I’ll take over.”

“Nope!” Asmodeus tells Mammon with a bright smile. “You’ve got a mess to clean up. I’ll be the one to  _ service _ our lovely customer today.”

You feel your face flush at the innuendo and you cough lightly, hoping to cover your newfound embarrassment. Except your embarrassment has less to do with Asmodeus’s words and far more to do with the images that flood your mind and the sharp turn your thoughts take: what Mammon’s lips might feel like against your own, or how his fingers might flex against your hips. You know they’re strong: you’ve seen them work as he wraps them around the portafilter handle and the way he only needs one finger to use the industrial whipped cream dispenser. 

You’re hasty to pay and get out, half afraid that either one of the baristas might be able to read your impure thoughts if you linger for too long. The first thing you do when you’re out of sight of the shop is to slide the heat sleeve off of your cup and turn it around in your hands, looking for today’s message.

There are two. 

The first is scribbled out, but you’re pretty sure it says  _ Can I get your number? Because I like you a latte _ underneath all of the extra ink. You snort and trace over the obscured words, trying to decide if it looks like yesterday’s handwriting. 

_ Coffee, tea, or just more of me? _ Is the second message, and this one isn’t scribbled over. It also doesn’t share the same handwriting as the first, and the question mark is dotted with a little heart. Asmodeus, then. The second one is almost definitely from Asmodeus, and your smile almost turns out into a frown. But it doesn’t make much sense because while you know of Asmodeus—everybody who goes to Common Grounds does, he’s practically the overbearing mascot—you’ve never really talked much with him before. The only one you’ve ever really chatted with is Mammon, and those conversations have been kind of… stilted, considering he almost burns himself every time you get too close. 

So… One of them has to be Mammon’s right? Except you saw Asmodeus writing on your cup, too, you remember with a frown. Maybe Mammon wrote the first one and then thought better of it and scribbled it out. Asmodeus does seem the type to egg something on for his own amusement…

You snap a photo of the messages and then throw the cup away once you're done with it.

Unfortunately, the cafe is  _ way _ too busy to try to speak to him the next morning. So you stare at him wistfully as you stand at the end of the bar even though there are more baristas than normal and it makes it a little difficult to track the movement of your cup. You’re pretty sure it passes through the hands of more than one person, but you’re not sure if any of those hands are Mammon’s. 

You try not to be disappointed when, after a careful search of your cup (even the bottom, which made you drink your coffee faster than normal so you don’t spill any) you don’t see anything. Not a single one of the little messages that have quickly become the highlight of your entire morning. You try not to pout all the way through class, but you’re out of your seat as soon as the lecture hour ends, darting for the door and Common Grounds.

The bell on the door tinkles as you push into the shop, and you’re immediately relieved to see that there’s only one other customer in the shop and she’s tucked away with her nose in her laptop. Mammon looks up from where he’s wiping down the counter and narrows his eyes at you.

“There a problem with your drink?” 

_ Yeah. It didn’t have a message on it, _ you think. Instead, you shake your head quickly and drum your fingers on the countertop to release some of your nervous energy. 

“No, I just… I have an exam later and could use a little pick-me-up, you know?” You hope your lie is convincing enough and watch as his face falls just the slightest bit. What kind of answer was he looking for? You wish he’d just  _ say something _ instead of writing it on the paper walls of your cup and letting you guess. But then again, maybe you could say something, too, because…

No. You share your head to dismiss the thought; if you said something to him and it was all a terrible misunderstanding, that would be  _ so _ awkward and you’d never be able to show your face there again. He moves to start your normal drink—actions that you know by heart by now—and you hold up your hand to stop him. It’s not particularly complex, and you want to draw out the encounter for as long as possible. Maybe you’ll work up the courage to say something along the way. 

“No, um… Thanks, but maybe something sweeter this time? Surprise me?” 

“How am I supposed to know what ya like?” Mammon grouses, but his hands go immediately towards some of the flavor shots and a new bag of specialty beans. He’s all bark and absolutely no bite, which is a pity, you think as you watch him work. 

“Ooh, fancy drink, huh?” Asmodeus distracts you by leaning over the counter and smiling at you. “Looks like you’re getting a lot of goodies. Better watch out: if you have this every day, then your body just won’t be ready for the summer!”

His words rub you the wrong say and you cross your arms. What your body looks like under your clothes is absolutely  _ none _ of Asmodeus’s business and you don’t like the idea that maybe he’s been picturing you without them. But before you can open your mouth to reprimand him, he launches into his next spiel.

“Well, no matter,” Asmodeus says as he claps a hand against Mammon’s back hard enough to make him grunt. “Because Mammon here knows of a  _ great  _ way to help you burn off all those calories in that drink.”

You can almost feel your mental faculties shut down.  _ Is he… flirting with me… for Mammon? _ A quick glance at Mammon doesn’t help at all because he’s eyeing you up and down as if he’s actually considering it and you discover that you don’t mind, actually, if it’s  _ him _ picturing what’s under your clothes. And with that realization, you feel your face heat with a flush.

“I…” you start but your sentence peters out because you don’t know where to take it. Where  _ is _ there to take it that isn’t a refusal (which you don’t want to do) or an enthusiastic ‘yeah, let’s just go out to the back alley’? Because that’s not really who you are but, well, it certainly is a  _ thought. _ “Um…”

“Or is it that you don’t like pickup lines? I  _ told _ him to just be direct and tell you that he wanted you but  _ no _ , he kept clinging to that ‘I don’t like customers like that, Asmo,’ and ‘they’re just here for coffee anyway, Asmo,’ routine that he does.” Asmodeus’s grin widens until you think you can see all of his teeth, and a quick glance at Mammon tells you that you’re not the only one whose face is hotter than a bonfire. 

“Let’s just see what he’s written today, hmm? He was  _ so _ disappointed that he didn’t get to do anything this morning. Poor thing kept moping around—oh!” Asmodeus wiggles his eyebrows at you as he holds your cup far away from Mammon’s reach. Mammon, for his part, is trying to extricate himself from Asmodeus’s grip in a futile attempt to snatch back your drink. “They say kissing is a language. Wanna start a conversation?”

Asmodeus drops your drink on the counter in front of you so that you can see that is, indeed, exactly what your drink says. 

“I, uh…” You glance at Asmodeus. Then back to your cup and up at Mammon, who has one hand pressed against his mouth as if he’s just barely holding back a scream. “Yeah.”

You surprise even yourself when you say it but you’re at least certain of your convictions. 

Asmodeus’s face lights up in glee and he pushes Mammon towards the swinging half-door and out onto the main floor of the shop. Mammon at least pretends to object to the manhandling, but even though you know he could easily overpower Asmodeus, he winds up wight in front of you anyway. 

“So uh,” you swallow hard now that he’s so close, much closer than he’s ever been behind the counter. “Those messages…”

Mammon laughs. “I write a bad pickup line on your cup every time I’m your barista. Was wonderin’ when you’d finally notice.” He reaches out to trace the line of your jaw and you angle your face so that he hovers just above you. 

“Oh,” you say, wondering why you’d never slid down the heat sleeve before or why he’d try to hide the messages in the first place. But you can’t spend too much time on those thoughts because he just gets closer and closer and  _ oh, _ you think.  _ This is really happening. _ The door chimes again but neither you nor Mammon care to look to see who it is.

“So how ‘bout that conversation?” He says, his voice low as he lowers his face to yours. The only thing you can think of is that he smells obscenely delicious, like fresh roasted coffee and caramel. 

“Oh my god,  _ finally _ .” You jump when you hear someone speak. The voice is familiar and you realize that it’s the barista that told Mammon not to flirt. So not his boss, at least. “You wouldn’t believe how much he’s been  _ whining _ about you,” the barista continues. Mammon makes an angry noise from deep within his throat and leans down closer so that you can feel his breath fanning over your face. And then closer still until his lips press against yours and your eyes slide shut so you can enjoy the moment.

You feel but do not see when he removes one of his hands to stick his middle finger up at the newcomer. Someone cackles behind you and if you were to put any thought towards it at all, you might discover that it’s Asmodeus. Instead, you part your lips and invite Mammon in.

All that you can think of is that he tastes exactly like he smells. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've literally never written a coffee shop au before in my life before this. And I call myself a fic writer.
> 
> A vaaaaast majority of these pickup lines are from me typing "cheesy pickup lines" into Google, not from my brain.


End file.
